On Scope

12

Peter McNamara loped along the interior of Central Park at six fifteen in the morning, counting his money in his mind as he jogged the usual three miles wearing brand-new red Nike Air Max shoes while his Garmin Forerunner 910XT combination GPS, watch, and heart rate monitor, purchased yesterday, clocked off his times. A chic black Reebok reversible runner’s headband soaked up the sweat beading on his forehead. The ribbon of sidewalk stretched out before him, pointing like a solid path toward further success. It was an exhilarating time, marked by bass notes hammering in the sharp pop music of his iPod.

He had bet almost everything his clients had, and then had borrowed on margin to bet even more, on a short sale against the embattled German company on which he had received the tip from the enigmatic Carlos Blanco. He now held fifty thousand shares, and the price had already fallen two full points in two days, putting 100K in his pockets for following the tip. In return for the favor, Blanco had sent a messenger with an encoded list of money transfers, plus his fee, and it had taken Peter less than an hour to shovel the cash around the globe. He had the rest of the day to concentrate on growing his company, maybe reel in another client, and then get in some shopping before happy hour. He was on his way to the top, away from the trading floor, and the rest of the world could bite his ass.

Then a runner behind him closed too fast and stepped on Peter’s left red Nike, making McNamara stumble. A big hand caught him by the arm and steadied him. Peter at first thought it might be a clumsy mugging attempt, which didn’t worry him because martial arts were a regular part of his fitness regimen. Then he saw the huge man holding his arm and grinning at him with a face that indicated he wasn’t really grinning at all, and he wasn’t letting go but propelling Peter forward. “See that guy on the bench right before the tunnel? Go sit by him.”

“I have a black belt,” McNamara snarled, trying to jerk his arm free.

“And I have a Glock. Anyway, I can kick your skinny ass so quick that you’ll ring like a tenpenny finishing nail hit with a greasy ball-peen hammer, as Brother Dave Gardner used to say. Go. Sit down and have a listen.” Master Gunnery Sergeant O. O. Dawkins squeezed the man’s bicep a little harder, and they moved toward the bench.

Commander Benton Freedman, the electronics wizard of Task Force Trident, did not get up but watched with large, intense eyes that seemed to burrow into McNamara’s DNA.

“Who are you people?” demanded McNamara. “I’ll call a cop!”

“The cops won’t help you, because we have better badges than they do,” said Freedman. “So, Mr. McNamara, allow me to summarize this situation: You are in a world of hurt. If you raise any kind of ruckus, my large friend here will reduce you to a puddle of piss in about three seconds flat. You run, he will shoot you dead. In the unlikely event that you somehow get away, a sniper in the bushes up on that rise will put a bullet in your head. Clear on that?”

McNamara’s eyes widened as the Lizard continued in his calm voice.

“The first choice you have to make right now is whether you prefer living or dying. Second choice is whether you would prefer living or dying in Guantánamo Bay, the Supermax federal prison in Colorado, or a very sad place in Romania, where you can be going by nightfall if you do not cooperate. Do you understand me?”

McNamara took a seat beside the smaller man, and the giant sat down, too, so close to Peter that their thighs touched. He looked incredibly strong, but the little guy doing the talking seemed to be the more vicious.

“I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Oh, just shut the fuck up, kid, until I ask you a question. Keep thinking about Romania. We know everything about you, and spent most of last night going through your shit in the office of your so-called boutique hedge fund. Jesus, you don’t even have a secretary. What is that about?”

“I handle everything personally. Instant access on my phones for my clients is one of my company’s strengths. You need to move into the Internet age, old dude.”

The big man threw back his head and laughed hard. Freedman was perhaps one of the top ten hackers in the world, and his rich Uncle Sam bought him any electronic toys he wanted. The Lizard worked with the designers of cutting-edge next-generation everything long before it hit the commercial shelves.

“I try to keep up,” Freedman replied. “In reality, you have a cheapo answering service in Queens that picks up the calls. Did you know Mannix Dillon of BQM, another lone ranger in your business? Never mind. Of course you knew her. You exchanged e-mails several times in the past year. Some of it very personal stuff.”

“Only from around the bar scene after work. We were fuck-buddies for a few weeks a long time ago, that’s all. I never did any business with her. How are you reading my e-mails?”

“She’s dead now, murdered right here in New York.”

“I saw that in The Wall Street Journal. It was horrible.”

Freedman popped open his Apple laptop and leafed through a couple of screens. “A few days before her death, she transferred a tidy sum to a gentleman named Cristobál Jose Bello in Mallorca, who was a person of great interest to us. Then Mr. Bello was killed. For those keeping score, you are tied to Dillon, and through her, you link to Bello. That makes two murders, three if we also count Bello’s bodyguard, who went down with him.”

McNamara gulped. “I don’t know anything about it. Never heard of anyone named Bello.”

Freedman readjusted his thick glasses and tickled the keyboard again.

“Ah. So next, a gentleman in Madrid, Juan de Lara, suddenly gets a hundred thousand dollars sent by you. He was also a person of interest to us, but alas, he, too, has been murdered. In the past, de Lara had received similar transfers from Dillon. That’s four murders now, and you are connected to all of them. What are the odds? The cops will figure it out soon enough and will come see you. If they don’t, I will personally make a call to the NYPD and throw you under the bus. You see where I’m going with this?”

McNamara felt walls closing in. “I want to speak to my attorney.”

“He can come see you in Romania. Now I have learned that you are making a bundle off of a collapsing company in Germany, the short-selling that Mannix Dillon had done right before she was gutted. That’s a lot of coincidences in one story, young man.” He closed the laptop and looked McNamara square in the face. “So you, Mr. McNamara, are now also a person of interest to us.”

“But who the hell are you?”

“Your new owners,” replied the Lizard. “If you want to be able to continue to trot along the sunny fields of Central Park in coming days, then you will tell me who instructed you to send the money to Juan de Lara, and who told you about the Kraut company that’s going belly-up.”

The big guy shoved closer to McNamara, jarring him off balance, even seated.

“A man I had never heard of called me for a meeting, gave me the tip, and hired me to do some of the transfer work that Mannix had been handling. His name is Carlos Blanco.”

“And you did no due diligence or background check, like ask to see his passport or driver’s license?”

“No.”

“Do you recognize any of these faces?” The Lizard turned his laptop screen so Peter could view the head-and-shoulders snaps of five men and one woman.

McNamara put his finger on one immediately. “Yeah. That’s the guy. How did you get that?”

Freedman ignored the question. McNamara had just confirmed the identity of Yanis Rebiane, who had originated the Dillon transfers. Now Rebiane had chosen a new broker and had changed his business name to Carlos Blanco. “You stole her client, this Mr. Blanco, and that has resulted in a nice reversal of fortune for you. Any response?”

“As soon as we all learned that Mannix was dead, everybody on the street was scrambling for her client list, me included.”

“You just took the money.”

“Yes, I took the money. If I didn’t take it, someone else would have. It is all properly reported, if you’re from the IRS.”

“We’re not.”

“CIA, then. The CIA cannot operate within the U.S.”

“Wrong again. Can you contact your new client Mr. Blanco?”

“Maybe. We only had one meeting, right here in the park, and after that, he sent my instructions via bike messenger. I have a number to call in case something goes wrong. I’ll give it to you.”

“Don’t bother. We already have it from your file.” Both of the men stood up, leaving Peter on the bench. The smaller one tucked the laptop into a shoulder bag. “Do you ever want to see either of us again?”

“No,” said the bewildered McNamara.

“And you won’t, if you do as you are told. You can communicate with me through a phony e-mail account that I have installed on your office computer. You will write messages there in draft form, saved but not sent. I will access them and reply, if needed. Don’t try to outsmart me, because this isn’t a game of checkers. We are the only people standing between you and thorough investigations by the FBI and the Securities and Exchange Commission, with resulting prison time. That will be my call, son. I suggest you cooperate.”

“But I haven’t done anything wrong!” McNamara protested. His face was flushing red in despair and tears were gathering in the corners of his eyes as he saw his life, which was so beautiful only a few minutes ago, falling to ruin.

“I don’t care. You get in touch with Blanco and I might make the government pressure go away. Once that happens, I strongly recommend that you take a two-week vacation from your job and never come back.” The men walked up over the hill and out of sight.